Gunny Gibbs
by Yanagi-wa
Summary: As the title suggests, a quick look at Gibbs as a Master Gunnery Sergeant and a Drill Instructor.


Gunny Gibbs

This starts shortly after Gibbs arrives at Great Lakes, the day after he settles into quarters. Mostly Gibbs centric, with a bit of AJ and Remy. And it's short.

Thanks to my great betas, Jake and Jordre.

.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs, Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant, RED, was not a happy man. He'd retired, never you mind how many years ago, from active duty; been persuaded to move from active to reserve status and was now serving his two weeks a year by training ten jackasses how to shoot without killing themselves.

"Jesus fucking Christ on a mop stick. Could you idiots be any more worthless? Do. Not. Answer. Me. Run!"

The first problem was, they were out of shape. None of them had managed to run the Grinder all the way through. He was twice the age of the oldest boy in the group and he was barely sweating while they were all panting like a broke-down race horse and sweating like a bull in July. He shook his head then barked, "Take a damn breather, hydrate. We'll go again as soon as I'm sure you're not all gonna drop dead on me."

The ten men flopped down on the ground, moaning and bitching. They were given sports drinks and water by attending Corpsmen who were watched by a senior officer. The Corpsmen were all finishing their training by attending on the training grounds.

After swilling down whatever drinks and water they were offered, Gibbs drove the men to their feet again. "Alright! Everyone up! Move it! You've got another round of the Grinder; then the barracks need cleaning."

Gibbs waited while the men got themselves together, picked up their rucks, and lined up. "Great! You've finally learned to dress yourselves." He eyed the dressed line with some disgust. "Sort of." The line was properly spaced, each man an arm's length from the others; but they were out of line, several men half a step in front of or behind the man next to him.

Gibbs just shook his head at that and began to bark them all into a straight line. When he was finished he returned to the front of the group and yelled, "When I say dress, I mean one arm's length between you, and in a fuckin' STRAIGHT damn line." He trotted to the end position then ordered, "Move out. Grinder, round two."

The group trotted off with Gibbs at their heels. He was as bad as AJ, moving up and down the line, egging this one on, slowing another down. He noticed that the men wanted to clump up into a square. It wouldn't be so bad, but there were ten men, and he wanted them paired up for the partner obstacles. So he not so subtly nudged them into pairs.

Finally, they were at the beginning of the Grinder, again. He barked, "Number off," which had the men numbering themselves from one to ten. "Odd numbers, one step forward! About face! Step right!" this left the odd numbers facing an even number man. "The man you are facing is now your partner. If you don't like him ... tough shit. You will not always be friends with people you have to work with ... get over it. Now ... you will run the Grinder again and take the partner obstacles. I do not want anyone fucking around. If I see any non-cooperation I will not be pleased. I will actually be pissed ... you will not like me when I'm pissed."

And they didn't. He spent the first part of the Grinder snarling and barking at them to move faster. He was actually extremely put out; these men, who were supposed to be in excellent condition, were in the worst condition of any group he'd had for years. And "they" ―the Powers-That-Be― expected him to whip them into good enough shape to go to war in two weeks. He just hoped they weren't as stupid as he feared.

It turned out that they weren't, but they did have a good laugh at another group. It seemed that one of the men had decided that his partner made a good stepping stone. Gibbs groaned softly, then snickered as he saw AJ head in to drag the man off his partner, then snatch that man out of the mud and water of the obstacle, yelling all the while.

Gibbs mumbled, "Need to remember some of those words. Wonder if he made them up?"

The PO standing beside him said, "I think most of it was Dari, but some might've been Farsi."

Gibbs shook his head. "Only AJ. Swear." He turned, eyed his group, then announced firmly, "And that is exactly the sort of behavior that I do not want to see. If you pull any stunts like that, you'll be cleaning shit until it wears through. Got me?"

The men all snapped to and shouted, "Sir! Yes, Sir!" then waited for more orders. Which they got at the top of Gibbs' not insubstantial lungs. "Get moving! Mind your partner and do not leave 'im hangin'. Go!"

They ran the Grinder again with Gibbs right on their tails. He noticed that one man was having more trouble than he ought, but decided he was just struggling to get back into shape. He backed off on him a bit as he was obviously trying. He, Gibbs, spent most of his time on those who thought they were in better shape than they were, and the slackers. Those he rode hard and put away wet.

They ran the Grinder one more time, but Gibbs kindly let the fastest three skip it. Instead he put them to watching the sit-up, pull-up and push-up stops. He stated flatly, "The only reason you're getting a break is I can't keep track of all three of these stations and run the pack. You're here to keep these jerks from shorting their counts." He stormed off to yell at one of the men who'd managed to get hung up at the top of a pyramid wall.

"Christ on a crutch. How the hell did you manage this?" Gibbs eyed the man for a moment but realized that there was no way the man was going to be able to get off by himself. He'd managed to catch the back of his belt on something then twist it. He literally couldn't go forward or back until someone unhooked him from the catch point.

Gibbs scrambled up the slant of the wall, using the chucks to ease his way. He still didn't understand why some men insisted on ignoring them. "Here, damn it." He grabbed the man's belt, unhooked it and shifted the man by grabbing his pants in the ass. "Hold the fuck still. You'll just get hung up again." He fended off a half-hearted attempt to kick him in the face. "Dumb as a box of rocks. Swing your leg over the other way, jackass." Finally managing to get the man straightened out and on his way again, he swore, "Never again. I'll go UA ... seriously." He glanced down to see that the following group was about to catch him up so he took off to see who else was trying to win a Darwin Award.

At the end of the last run he gathered all his men at the end point and started in. "You! And you!" he pointed to two men. "Both of you are on report. I don't care what your old CO said, you're both useless. You're not going to just stroll in somewhere, set up a nest and see your tango. You're gonna have ta hump your gear into some hot, dusty hidey-hole out in the middle of the ass end of nowhere, set up, observe ... maybe for days, do your thing and get back out. Skipping on PT is not the way to be ready. You're both going to do one hundred push-ups, sit-ups and pull-ups. Now!" He eyed the two men, who just stood looking at him like idiots. "Stop staring like deer in the headlights and get going! MOVE!"

He watched the rest of the men for a moment then went back to 'explaining' things to them. "Those two cut their counts short consistently. You ... you ... and you," he pointed out three more men. "You just can't work out and count at the same time. Fix that." All three men barked, "Sir! Yes, sir! Sorry, sir!" He shook his head again. "The rest of you are pathetic, but I do have hope." He dismissed them to return to barracks and dinner.

As they wandered off one man made the mistake of grumbling, a bit too loudly, "Well, I bet we're in better shape than he is. How old is he, anyway?"

Gibbs took exception to that. "I'm old enough to be your father, god help me. But I can run you into the ground. Stop and use your brain. I cover three times the distance you do, get your stupid asses out of whatever mess you've gotten it into and do the PT you do, and I'm still goin'. You're all groanin' and moanin', bitchin' and whinin' and ready to fall over. Shut your mouth ... and you're on report for disrespecting a superior officer ... and I am superior to you in every way. Now get out a' my sight." The men scurried off and Gibbs went home to make coffee before he went to dinner.

.

The next few days saw most of the men in better shape, but four men were gone. They'd all been dismissed from the program for one reason or another.

One in particular nearly gave Gibbs a heart attack. One of the phases of training was how to break down their rifle without putting the scope out of true. He'd been walking up and down the line, watching the men and correcting errors here and there when he saw something that made him freeze for a moment.

One of the less experienced men was taking the scope off his rifle by bracing the rifle between one of the sandbags and his chest. That wouldn't have been that bad, but he had the muzzle pressed against his chest directly over his heart, and Gibbs had the feeling it was loaded. This guy was a safety hazard on two feet.

He took a deep breath and bellowed, "Freeze! No one do anything!" He hurried over, grabbed the rifle out of the man's hands and continued yelling, "Phelps, you are out! Done! Finished! What the ever lovin' fuck were you thinking?" He ejected the magazine. "And the mother fucker is loaded?" He worked the action, ejected the shell in the chamber and shook his head. "You are such a hot mess. Who the hell thought you'd make a sniper? Your CO must be insane. Pack your shit and git."

The man gathered up his things with shaking hands, well aware that he'd fucked up too badly to excuse or recover from. He hurried away with his case under his arm and his ruck over the other shoulder.

Gibbs watched him go, mumbling, "I need a drink ... or three." He went back to yelling at his group. They all knuckled down, worked hard, and hoped to avoid his notice.

At the end of the day Gibbs dismissed all the men with the last order of, "Head back. And I want to see nothing but dust. Go!" He watched as the men ran off under the eye of the squad leader. "And now for ..." he swore softly. "A Foxtrot Tango of paperwork. Whatever happened to a paperless world?" He trotted off himself, headed for his office and the pile of paperwork he had to do to explain why he'd released Phelps from the program. "How about too stupid to live? Or dumb as a box of rocks? Mentally unable to avoid winning a Darwin Award?" He put his rifle case and ruck on the floor behind the desk, sat down, put on his glasses and started filling out forms.

By the time he was done, everyone in the complex had heard about his latest reject. Several fellow DI's dropped into his office to sympathize, moan about their own idiots, and offer advice. He appreciated it all, especially the coffee they brought. But it was no comfort at all to realize that he'd gotten a group of rejects. He knew it wasn't any sort of malice on anyone's part, it was just the luck of the draw. Fate has always been a fickle bitch. It was just his turn to get the dirty end of the stick.

He finished his paperwork and headed for the galley to see if he couldn't beg a sandwich from someone. The culinary specialists were usually sympathetic to anyone who missed mess because of the call of duty, unless it was the video game. He was given a commiserating look by the Galley Chief and a hot roast beef sandwich with steamed veg and apple crisp.

"Thanks Chief, I was looking forward to a sling-your-hook, or cold cuts. This is great." He settled down at a small table at the side of the kitchen and dug in. The roast was tender and juicy, the potatoes creamy with lots of butter. The gravy was made from scratch, not that salty brown stuff from powder. The veg was a mix of carrots, green beans and broccoli, with a touch of something he couldn't identify. And the apple crisp was just sweet enough, with a touch of spice. He cleaned his plate and considered asking for more, but realized that the galley was getting ready for dinner, so he didn't. Instead he turned his tray in, thanked the Chief, and got out of their way.

He caught up with a man he knew from other days and invited him to his Quonset for coffee. He replied, "I can't. I've still got a Foxtrot Tango of paperwork to do. Heard you had a good one."

Gibbs shook his head. "Yeah. Darwin Award runner-up." He told his friend about what happened. "I swear ... they're dumber every year. Where the hell is the service finding these losers?" He was whining and he knew it, but he didn't care.

"No fuckin' idea. I think someone figures out who the worst ones are and puts 'em all in the same squad. And you say they're supposed to be the bright lights of their groups? Need sniper training?" Gibbs just nodded dismally. "Good luck with that." He turned into a building, disappearing into the shadowed hall.

Gibbs shrugged; he really wanted some company this evening. He thought about finding AJ and Remy, but decided against it, as they were probably hip-deep in work, and tired. He realized that he was tired too; maybe he'd just go home, have some coffee, and go to sleep.

He wound up at the club, sharing Oscar Mike Golf stories with the bartender and a couple of Warrant Officers.

"No shit, there we were, on the range. I was walkin' the line. Then I saw something so stupid I nearly had a heart attack. Rifle, loaded, muzzle pressed against his chest while he pounds on it, trying to get the scope off the mount. And I was specific in saying to take the mount off the rifle, not the scope off the mount. Seriously. What an ASVAB waiver. Man's gonna get a Darwin Award someday." Gibbs shook his head sadly and swallowed the last of his beer while his listeners groaned in sympathy. "I gotta go. I'm up at 0430 for PT and target practice. Then I have to drag that bunch a' yahoos out a' their racks and get them through their PT before breakfast. Swear to St. Michael, I'm glad I can at least eat in peace."

One of the other TO's asked, "Who are you trainin' at the ass crack a' dawn?"

"Me. I'm older n' all a' you yahoos by a good ten years. I'm not lettin' you get one over on me because I got lazy. Night." He waved over his shoulder as he ambled out the door.

He refused the offer of taxi service from a private set for just that reason and started for his bivouac. Since the evening was nice, he preferred to walk… read that as trot.

It took him five minutes to dog-trot the distance between the club and his housing. He undressed and flopped down on the bed, wondering what God of War he'd pissed off. He was asleep in minutes.

The next morning wasn't as bad as some. He got up and made coffee, then did his run. He was joined by several of the other TO's and enjoyed a quiet run without having to chivvy a bunch of lazy jackwads into doing their due. And no one was yelling at him either; he counted that as a double plus.

As soon as he was back at his place, he got out his gun case and shooting bag, checked them, then headed for the range. He was going to get in a bit of shooting before he had to take on a squad of lugnuts. He was really glad he was only training them in marksmanship rather than taking on the whole load. He admitted to running them into the ground for punishment while he had them in hand, but he didn't have to bed them down or put up with a long list of other bits of shit that other DI's had to put up with. Thank whoever was listening. He felt seriously sorry for AJ and Remy. He wondered when they'd have time to get together for a bit.

.

Gibbs settled into his nest; he expected to be able to stay for at least 18 hours, if he had to. He'd decided to make his squad hunt for him; if he could paint them before they saw him, they were "dead." He'd gotten the sensors and rifles from Tim; who knew where he got them.

He listened carefully and heard the voice of the squad's DI's, who had brought the group from their barracks to the open area. "All right, you now have the privilege and honor of trying to find Master Gunnery Sergeant Leroy Jethro Gibbs; he is one of the best shooters in existence today. He's out there, somewhere, waiting for you. If you see him before he sees you ... I'll be blessed with at least one good PIG. But, somehow, I doubt it. Each of you will have a sensor on your chest, when it buzzes, return here ... you're dead. Now go."

The whole squad perked up like someone had offered them a four-day pass in Vegas. The DI's all shook their heads; they'd seen this played out time after time: different subjects, same result. They settled in a shady spot to drink bottled water and make bets on who would be returning first.

Gibbs decided on a time limit; he wasn't going to pick off his first target for at least six hours, unless they stepped on him; he really hated that. He watched as the group split up, a few in groups of two and one group of three, but most took off alone. He sighed at the waste of skin, then froze in place to wait out his time.

The DI's spent a bit of time searching, using opticals, for Gibbs. They weren't a bit surprised when they didn't find him. One offered, "He's so good it's a crime he's not still working. Heard he's friends with Dean Cale. Now that's a really scary combo."

The other officer added, "Yeah. Only couple scarier would be DiNozzo and Devereaux. I heard they're here as TO's for a bunch a' losers. Too bad. For the losers." He took another look then snarled, "Can't find 'im." He handed his partner a ten then sat back down.

It was just at four hours when the first sighting happened; the sighter took his shot and was rewarded with a loud buzz. No one had bothered to tell anyone that friendly fire was just the same as sniper fire; the target was dead. Al Jones had just shot Ted Grimm, putting both of them out; one because he was dead, the other because he'd shot a teammate. The DI's took Jones off the roster, with a permanent black mark on his record. Grimm just got an ass chewing for not having any situational awareness.

This led to Gibbs getting fed up with the whole exercise.

He sighted in on a single, waited until his back was turned, and pulled the trigger. He did like these laser rifles; no smoke, no recoil, no muzzle flash. He smirked to himself and found another target. Since this man was facing him, he waited until the man left the field and moved.

This was easier than you'd expect, as he was wearing a gillie suit, and the grass was waist-high. He belly-crawled slowly, making sure that he didn't mash the grass down and leave a trail. As he crawled he checked for targets. He found one and sniped him, receiving a loud curse for his troubles. He muttered, "Open your eyes, you dumb ass, you nearly stepped on me."

Gibbs eased behind a tree and stood up. He had his choice of three good positions and decided to climb a tree for his next round. After carefully slinging his rifle so that he wouldn't accidentally shoot himself, he climbed to the lowest limb and settled against the trunk while he looked for another target. He decided that he'd better wait a while for all the chickens to calm down a bit.

It was a truly disgusting fifteen minutes before they were all crashing around again. He was reminded of a herd of deaf buffalo. He watched for another five minutes, but was tempted by a group of three that were actually yelling back and forth. He picked all three off in one minute then waited to see if anyone had noticed anything. Evidently they were all blind, stupid, or drunk off their collective asses.

He was just getting ready to take another shot when a voice from behind him hissed, "Not fair, Jet. Seriously? Takin' advantage of the ghosting-challenged?"

Gibbs controlled his flinch with obvious, to AJ, effort. "Fuck, you asshole! Scare me half to death. Was not expectin' you to show up here."

"You know I always show up when least expected." AJ settled beside Gibbs and watched the men for a moment. They were obviously trying to remain unseen, and failing miserably. "Man, your bunch is as big a waste of air as mine. You're lucky you only have to fuck with 'em for ... what? Four hours at a time?"

Gibbs watched for targets as he replied, "I got two groups to deal with. But ... yeah ... four hours at a time. Unfortunately, every time I get rid of one, the PTB assign another. Come by tonight for chow."

"'K." And with that, Tony was gone, slipping away without a sound.

Gibbs decided that he needed to move, as he wasn't sure whether one man had seen him or not. He targeted that man, put him down, and moved on.

After about ten minutes in his new nest Gibbs had another visitor. Remy slithered into the hollow from the back of the ridge. "Jet. How y' doin'?"

"Good until you showed up. How the hell?" He didn't have to finish his question.

"Yo good, real good. Me, I'm jes' a swamp dog. See t'ings, me." Remy kept his voice down so low that Gibbs was half reading his lips.

"You know ... I don't care. As long as you don't get me spotted, it's all good." Gibbs went back to searching for a target that wouldn't get him spotted by someone else. Remy tapped his shoulder then pointed, Gibbs noticed that he'd dirtied his hands so they wouldn't be seen. He grunted, muttered, "Got 'im," and took his shot. He immediately started to move. Breaking up the number of shots he took from one location was another of his tricks. Remy faded into the brush and was gone.

Another ten minutes and it was all over.

.

Tony had gone from Gibbs' nest to the head of the clearing, where the DI's had located their station. He gossiped with them cheerfully, gaining appreciative snorts when he offered observations on the skills, or lack thereof, of their men.

The last man came trotting in scowling in disgust. "What the fuckin' hell? Man's a total BDD."

One of the DI's shrugged at Tony. "What can I say? They're all hopeless."

Most of the squad took exception to that, but kept their mouths shut. After all, calling attention to yourself was asking for some sort of trouble.

The DI's all looked for Gibbs, assuming that he'd be visible on his way back in. Tony glanced to the side, then flicked his eyes away.

"He's not out there."

"Oh? Then where the hell is he?" The DI handed the opticals to Tony. "Point him out."

Gibbs stood up. "Open your damn eyes. I'm right here."

Every single man, except AJ, jumped a foot; including the DI's.

The DI's were disgusted; they'd predicted this, although they hadn't thought that they'd be unable to see Gibbs. And let the whole squad know. One of them started at the left end of the line while the other started at the right and they systematically chewed each man out, extolling their faults with painful clarity and excruciating detail.

Gibbs watched with some amusement. Every single man was red faced; the DIs in fury, the squad's in embarrassment. He sauntered over, still wearing his gillie suit, to tell one of the DI's, "I'm goin' back to my ..." He didn't get any farther as the man jumped out of his skin with a yelp. He slidy-eyed the DI for a moment then said, "Damnit, man, how the hell can you miss a six foot tall man in a gillie suit walkin' up on you? Seriously?" And with that he left, muttering under his breath.

.

AJ looked up from his beer to see Jet walking in the door of the club. "Jet. Hey."

"Hey yourself." He nodded to the bartender and said, "Boilermaker." The bartender gave him a look, but, since it was Friday, didn't say anything.

AJ blinked; Jet hardly ever drank Boilermakers unless he was pissed. "So ... something?"

"You saw the squad of ASVAB waivers I've got. They're so fucked up they're beyond FUBAR so far that CATFU doesn't begin to describe it." He proceeded to bitch about his squad, with suitable profanity. He ended by asking mournfully, "What god of where did I insult so badly that I deserve this? Really."

AJ shook his head in sympathy. "You've seen the bunch of rejects I've been dealing with?" Gibbs nodded. "We fucked up somehow, some when, and Aries is punishing us."

Gibbs snorted. "No such thing."

"Jerk." AJ gave him a sad look.

"Bitch." Jet signaled the bartender for another drink then poked AJ in the ribs.

AJ retaliated by stealing his drink. "Not."

An indignant, 'Are too, you stole my drink,' made AJ agree, "Okay, so maybe I am. Tango Sierra."

Remy ambled in, eyed their drinks with some disfavor, then signaled to the bartender. "'Nother of what they havin'." He dropped the shot, took a hefty swig, then demanded, "Okay ... who shit in yo' whisky?"

This resulted in another round of bitter bitching on Gibbs' part and sympathetic noises on the part of Remy and AJ.

Gibbs looked at his empty glass, then decided against another; he'd already had two. He nodded to the bartender again and said, "Coffee, straight." He glanced to his right, then his left, eyeing AJ, then Remy. "Okay. You both look like hell on a half-shell ... tell me about it."

So they did, with appropriate gestures. The bartender just smirked to himself; he was used to this sort of thing. All DIs and TOs seemed to think that the GotM hated them in particular and complained, in long-established military tradition, about things in detail. That was one of the reasons the Base CO dropped around on a regular basis to pump him; scuttlebutt was so useful.

Jet shook his head at the end of the combined tirade and offered, "And we thought NCIS was fucked up. Seriously ... where do they find all these rejects from a funny farm?"

"No idea. Just the thought of having some of those asswipes on my six makes me wanna ... don't know what." AJ shook his head one last time, finished off his coffee, and stood up. "Let's blow this pop stand."

Remy and Jet stood up too. "Right. On your six. Oscar Mike."

They walked out the door and started on the trot to their housing. Remy remarked, "It strange t' be runnin' wit'out th' rest a' the Pod. Miss 'em. Never tell 'em I said." He glared at Jet and AJ warningly.

Jet held up his hands in mock surrender. "Never. Wouldn't dream of it."

AJ just bopped him on the shoulder. "Shut it, you. I miss 'em too."

It didn't take them long to get to Gibbs' squat, as he called it; they'd run past AJ and Remy's place a few minutes earlier, but Gibbs had invited them in for more coffee and a bitchin' session. So they settled at the kitchen table with more coffee and some cookies that Gibbs produced from a care package Abby had sent.

AJ eyed the cranberry, almond, and oatmeal goodies and demanded, "So ... how is it you rate and we don't?"

Remy added, "Jet, yo' look way too smug. Wa?"

Jet shrugged, "Abby sent 'em to me with orders to share with you two goons. She said you'd forget an' eat 'em all before I got any. You two have no self-restraint." He ducked a swat from Remy. "Hey! Her words ... not mine."

Remy shook his head. "Deal, punk. I no swattin' dat un. She feed me ta th' gaters."

AJ nodded. "She would. Woman's a menace when she's pissed."

Jet nodded. "She is. She truly is." He sipped his coffee. "I made her mad the first year we worked together. She did something to the coffee maker, no matter how much grind I put in, the coffee was weak as dishwater. Woman made me grovel."

AJ snickered. "Well, shit. She didn't like me much at first and she made sure I knew it. I'd still like to know how she made everything I ate smell like grass for a whole day."

Jet snorted, "Be glad she didn't make it smell like shit."

Remy shrugged. "She like me. Cajun, me. See? She really prank d' hell out a' that Symons shit. Love that woman, oui, I do."

Jet frankly giggled, although he'd deny it under torture, then said, "I do too. She's something special. Cos tell you what she did to him?"

"No, wha' she do?"

"He messed her desk up. Not exactly sure what he did, but she didn't like it. She offered to do his laundry for him."

AJ blinked. "'Scuse me?"

"She starched his shorts. Boiled starch. Had to break 'em with a hammer before he could get them on. And he had to wear 'em, she made him swear."

They all cracked up over that and spent some time alternately snickering and tossing out a remark that made them all crack up again.

Finally AJ glanced at his watch and said, "Late. We better hoof it. Got a bunch a' ASVAB waiver jackwads to herd tomorrow."

Gibbs nodded. "Me too. Makes me tired just thinkin' about it."

He saw them to the door, locked up and went to bed; he had an early morning tomorrow, with another group coming in on top of the fifteen he was already nursing. He was glad they were a one-day class.

.

It turned out that Gibbs not only had his regular two classes that day, plus the class of fifteen who were there to, thank whoever, observe; he also had several SWAT members there for the same reason. They were coming in to observe the afternoon class, while the extras were in the morning. He glanced over the list with some interest; the morning class was all Army.

Deciding to just get on with it, endure, then head out for lunch, he trotted off to meet his fate.

This turned out to be a busload of men who were all young, high-and-tight, and lost. He bellowed, "Fall the fuck in!" which at least got them in a straight, double line. "Follow me!" With that last command he headed for the range, which was about a mile away. He was glad that all the men were dressed in A-TAC's, instead of some UOD that was not appropriate to the day. He nodded to the Master Sergeant, "Drill Sergeant."

The Drill Sergeant replied, "Master Guns."

Satisfied with their greetings, they both went back to their duties. Gibbs led the way, while the Drill Sergeant in charge and his companion Staff Sergeant spent their run barking at their men to keep up, stay in line and act like they knew something.

When they reached the range, Gibbs' first Marine class was there waiting patiently for the visiting Army group to arrive. Gibbs turned the new group over to the waiting DI's for instruction on range rules while he checked the setups. He didn't really need to, the DI's knew what they were doing, but it made him feel better.

He walked the line, eyeballing each man, especially the new group. As there was the same number of men in each group, he had them pair up, one Army with one Marine, then announced, "As you know, there will be times when you can't pick your spotter, therefore you will work with the man I have paired you with. No trading, no bitching. Army don't like Marines and I assure you the feelings are mutual, but ... and this is important ... I don't give a fuck. Army will shoot first, only so that you aren't terminally embarrassed by Marine excellence. Number off to find your station." He waited a moment then snarled while pointing to the group to his far left, "One!" With that prompt the men continued on down the line, each group shouting their number.

The Master Sergeant, whose name bar read Parker, sighed, "Sorry about that. I swear, they get dumber every turn."

"Tell me about it." He went on to tell the man about the guy who'd put the muzzle against his chest. He ended, "Seriously, what the actual fuck?"

"Man, that is fucked up." He shook his head. "Where's he now?"

"Back at his old assignment, dropped a rank and on report. Black mark on his record. Man's a walking disaster area."

"Good."

They returned to watching the men prepare their gear. One thing that they both noticed with pleasure: the men didn't squabble more than was ordinary for two strangers trying to figure out their partnership.

When they were done, all the officers paced the line, checking to make sure that they'd done the job right. It seemed that, between the two of them, all the groups had managed fairly well. There were a couple of corrections, but nothing that sparked a screaming dressing-down from anyone. Gibbs had high hopes for the morning.

He was rewarded, in a way. No one actually shot himself, his partner, or anyone else, but that was the limit of his luck. As a group, they showed a miserable level of skills. He knew they were all better, and he knew the problem was working with strangers. But that didn't help the situation at all. If their spotter, or shooter, was KIA or just WIA, they were going to have to work with a total stranger… or die. He'd really rather not have them die, no matter how irritating they were.

There was one incident that he'd laugh about later; but, as he was hot and sweating when one of the Army guests referred to him as Drill Sergeant, he flipped out a bit. He turned, glared at the Corporal and demanded, "What the hell did you just call me?"

The man mumbled something and Gibbs snarled, "Speak the fuck up. I didn't hear you."

"I called you Drill Sergeant, sir."

Gibbs eyed him then barked, "You do not call me Drill Sergeant. I am a Drill Instructor, and definitely not a simple Sergeant. I am a Marine Master Gunnery Sergeant."

The Corporal visibly gulped, they'd all been warned to be careful who they called what. He managed, "I'm sorry, Drill Instructor, Sir."

Gibbs gave him another hairy eyeball for good measure, then stormed off to bitch out another poor soul who was doing something stupid.

Finally the torture was over. "Enough! Cease fire! Line the fuck up." Gibbs turned to Master Sergeant Parker. "Master Sergeant Parker. Please tell me that this group of ... losers isn't the best the Army produces."

Master Sergeant Parker replied, "I'm sure I thought so."

And with that, the misery began.

Gibbs addressed the Marines, flanked by their DI's. "I swear, I've never seen such a mess in my life. If that's the best cooperation you can muster, I'm disgusted." He started to say something, changed his mind, and ordered, "There's another class this afternoon. Do better." He motioned to the flanking DI's. "Deal." He stormed off to find coffee, muttering under his breath.

The DI's yelled the group into motion, headed for the Grinder and a grueling run before they were allowed lunch. They'd eat well, just not the "good" stuff. Spam on a piece of dry toast, smothered in white gravy, a side of boiled vegetables, no dessert. Not really tasty, but filling and nutritious.

No one knew, or cared, what happened to the Army squad, other than they weren't polluting Great Lakes anymore.

.

Gibbs met AJ and Remy on his way to the combined CO/NCO club and invited them to eat with him.

They settled at a table, put in their orders, and tried to relax. And started a round of the military's favorite pastime: complaining.

AJ started, looking decidedly ruffled, while Remy looked flamin' pissed. Gibbs just groaned, then demanded, "So what demented jackass did what?"

Remy sipped his coffee, then said, "Ron Sacks is fomentin' rebellion amongst th' troops. Gonna get 'im in trouble."

Gibbs shook his head. "That man has always had it in for you. AJ, what the hell did you do?"

"I exist. He's so jealous of what he thinks I had as a child, it's made him stupid." He shook his head and went back to his coffee.

Their food came, a nice, thick grilled pork chop with dressing, buttered green beans, and cole slaw for Gibbs and Remy. AJ had settled on the chicken and dressing, which turned out to be grilled as well. They all dug in with relish and were soon wiping the last of the gravy off their plates.

They sat for a while more, drinking their coffee and bitching. They were finally approached by a CPO who challenged AJ to a game of darts, saying, "I hear you're good. I think I'm better."

Remy eyed the CPO for a moment then moaned, "Oh, man, you so did not. Seriously?"

AJ beamed. "And ... as the challenged, I get to set the rules."

Gibbs just shook his head sadly. "So you do."

The CPO snorted. "So? I can beat 'im."

Remy muttered, "Only wit' a stick, hom. Only wit' a stick."

.

It wasn't long before CPO Ridgely was regretting his challenge.

AJ shook his head. "No, you bend over, back to the board, straighten up real quick and throw. You don't turn around."

"Man, that's impossible." AJ just crossed his arms over his chest. "Okay, you're so damn good ... show me."

AJ took a dart, bent from the waist, straightened up and tossed the dart over his shoulder. It hit the outer bull's eye. CPO Ridgely gaped for a moment then tossed his darts down on the table. "Fuck this shit. I been had. Those guys said you were an easy mark."

AJ just snickered, eyed the group then said, "Well, they lied to ya, they surely did. You been owned. Buy me a coffee and we'll call it a draw."

Ridgely took this with good humor. "You're all right, sir."

AJ grinned at him, then sat back down, giving the CPO's friends a warning look as he did so.

Ridgely raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry. When Gibbs nodded, he settled at their table. "Well ... what kind of cars do you like?"

AJ shrugged, "Used to like Corvettes, but mine got stolen and wrecked."

Gibbs interjected, "You saw it on TV. Some jackwad stole it off the Georgetown campus. Black Corvette."

"Yeah, yeah. I remember. Man, sucks to be you."

AJ nodded. "That it does. Then I got a '66 Ford Mustang, four speed manual, V-8, dual carbs, mint green with caramel interior."

Remy shook his head sadly. "Too bad 'bout dat 'un."

"What happened?" Ridgely gave AJ a sympathetic look.

"Got blown up."

Ridgely shuddered. "Man, maybe I should move over a chair. Don't want your bad luck rubbing off on me."

AJ snorted. "Won't. You should see what I drive now."

"Okay. I'll bite. What?" Ridgely envisioned a trash car, some sort of hoopty it wouldn't matter.

"Humvee."

Gibbs nodded wisely. "And not one of those Arnie specials either."

"Yeah?"

AJ grinned. "Bought a decommissioned Humvee. Got it fixed up a bit. It's sweet. Got a 400 cu in V8 turbo diesel, generates 190 hp 3,400 rpm. Took out a lot of extraneous equipment, mostly electronics." He went on to describe the whole vehicle, including the can of chips Jimmy had made up. He finished, "And that cuts out arguments about who sits where. Luck a' th' draw."

Ridgely shook his head. "You're a wild man. Dude, you surely are." He finished his coffee then stood up. "Best get back to work."

Gibbs eyed his watch for a moment then said in a baffled tone, "How the fuck did it get that late? It's nearly 1330. We need to get ta' gettin' or we're never gonna get back to our duty stations in time. We need to put wheels under this bitch."

They all agreed, finished their coffee, paid up, and left at a fast trot.

.

Gibbs was happy to see that the SWAT group was all older officers and not, thank the powers, young, indestructible newbies.

He paired the men up, one SWAT, one Marine, and went through his speech again. He noticed a few eye rolls and decided that, since he had four more Marines in this class than he did SWAT, and four eye-rollers, they would be running. "Okay, you ... you ... you ... and you. Front and center." The four men stepped forward. Gibbs turned to one of the DI's. "How do you feel about men who roll their eyes at a superior officer and an instructor?" The DI growled. "Take them and explain to them why that's such a bad idea. Should take about four hours."

The DI was not a happy camper. He'd been looking forward to sitting in the shade and watching while Gibbs put the afternoon class through their paces. Now, he had to run in the sun and, needless to say, he was not appreciative. He barked the four men into motion, then dogged their heels. The five men were soon gone in a cloud of dust. Gibbs shook his head.

"I'm sure you heard from the morning class that you will be working with one of the SWAT team. Pair up." He watched as the group milled around for a bit. He saw that the SWAT members were trying to find a compatible match, while the Marines were trying to avoid being paired with SWAT. How they thought they'd be allowed to pair with someone they knew when the whole point of this exercise was to work with someone they'd never met before, Gibbs wasn't sure.

He finally gave up. "Oh, my great-aunt Gerty! Line the fuck up." He pointed. "Marines there. SWAT there." He pointed again. "Marines! Forward march." The Marines marched forward until they were lined up with the SWAT group who obligingly shuffled around until they were paired. "Halt! Left Face!" All the Marines stopped and turned to face left. "You are now facing your SWAT partner. No trading, no bitching." He waited while the DI got the two teams properly paired and standing in a line. "Set up your gear." The whole group just stood and looked at him. "Well? What the hell are you numbnuts waiting for, an engraved invitation? MOVE!" The pairs scrambled to get to the nearest shooting station. Gibbs eyed the remaining DI who indulged himself with an eye roll.

"Just shoot me now."

The DI snorted, "That is a distinct possibility, Master Guns."

"'Fraid you'd say that."

However, this group did a lot better than the morning group. The SWAT squad seemed to be able to get their partners on task quickly, and Gibbs did wonder why they were there. He addressed their CO, who was standing by the DI. "Okay, why the hell are you wasting your time and mine with this exercise in stupidity?" He kept his tone polite, as he was well aware that it wasn't the man's fault.

"Well, it seems that some Delta Mike Foxtrot up the line somewhere thought it would be ... beneficial ... for us to ... waste time an' ammo on this ... field trip. The second we're released, we're all going into Chicago ... see a show or something. Eat pizza. Drink beer. So. As soon as you feel we've suffered enough ... please let us go."

He sounded so disgusted, then plaintive, that Gibbs could only grimace. He nodded, keeping his eyes on his trainees. "Okay. I'll see what I can do."

He winced slightly as a voice from the firing line demanded, "And where the hell did you take your training? Kindergarten? Put that there." He went to back up the SWAT side of the team.

It didn't take him long to get his man sorted, appease the SWAT officer, and return to walking the line.

By the time the class was over, he was ready for supper and a drink, or three. The SWAT officers had finally gotten their Marine partners to understand that they weren't newbies, any more than the Marines were. After that they were on target and shooting papers like machines. Everyone was pleased with their work and packed up on command.

Gibbs nodded to the DI, then the SWAT squad. "Send 'em back home with my compliments." He looked at the squad of Marines. "I think we've weeded out the dead weight. Give each man my compliments." He then turned to the SWAT Commander. "Good men. Sorry they had to put up with some nonsense."

"Thank you. That nonsense didn't hurt them in the least. Now for some fun." He saluted Gibbs, who returned the compliment, then trotted off to gather up his men and head for their waiting bus.

Gibbs grumbled, "I swear, I'd settle for a nice murder or something. This shit is killin' me."

.

AJ shuddered, "Gah! Cold chill."

Remy gripped his shoulder for a moment. "Who walk ova' yo grave?"

"Not that sort. Someone was talkin' about me." He returned to what he'd been doing, which was packing up to head for home.

He finished, grabbed his ruck, shouldered it, then turned to a waiting Remy. "You waitin' on me?"

Remy just grinned. "Wastin' time. We go now."

They headed for home at a hard trot.

Remy jerked his head in the general direction of the Officers Club. "Can we eat there? Steak would hit the spot."

"Okay. Right now, all I want is a shower and a sit-down. I swear God loves stupid ... he made so damn much of it."

"True, dat."

They made it home just in time to catch Gibbs' call. AJ put it on speaker as he unbuttoned his shirt. "Gibbs. Speak."

"Take me out for steaks. I'm about done up. I swear they get dumber every day. The morning class ... never mind ... the word disaster could be applied. The afternoon class was good. But I'm worn out. I spent all day tryin' t' keep stupid people from bein' stupid. Swear, I'd just about kill for a good ol' fashioned murder or somethin'."

Remy moaned. "Oh, man, Jet ... wa' de madda wit ya? Avez-vous perdu la raison? We jinx now fo' sho'."

Gibbs grunted then demanded, "English, Remy. Your French is decidedly weird."

"You've lost your mind. There." Remy rolled his eyes at AJ. "We done."

AJ grumbled, "Probably." He returned to the phone. "Meet us at the club. I'll leave an invite at the door."

"Okay. Thanks." Gibbs hung up in his usual fashion, and Tony tossed his phone on the bed. "Shower."

Remy agreed with that, so they headed to shower, shave, and redress in clean A-TAC's.

It turned out that Tony didn't have to leave an invite, as Gibbs met them at the door.

They took a table and ordered. Gibbs wanted one of the appetizer platters, so they ordered two, one crudities and one fried everything. The Culinary Specialist who took their order grinned, but didn't say anything except, "And how would you all like your steaks?"

Tony answered for the table. "Rare."

"How rare?"

Gibbs chuckled, "If it moos when I stick it, I'll stick it again until it shuts up."

The Specialist laughed. "I'll have to remember that one. Thirty minutes, gentlemen." He walked off to put their orders in.

Remy started in on Gibbs the second the seaman walked off. "Jet, yo hate me?"

"No. What?"

"Yo wish us bad. Nice murder, my lily-white ass."

Gibbs blinked for a moment, then sighed. "I did, didn't I? Well, shit."

The steaks arrived and, when Gibbs cut his, were discovered to be perfect; not blue, that was too rare even for Gibbs, but just short of that. Their potatoes were properly done and smothered with butter and sour cream with just a sprinkle of chives. They'd all forgone the only vegetable offered, as it was cauliflower, which they all agreed couldn't be made palatable smothered in all the cheese in the galley.

They were just finishing their pie, apple-caramel with vanilla ice cream, when Tony's phone went off, followed shortly thereafter by Gibbs'.

Remy took the information that they all had new orders with a grimace. "Tol' ya."

Gibbs grumbled, "Shut up."

Tony announced, "We've caught a case. Fornell is coming down with all the information, and Cos and Dean will be here too." He grinned. "At least we don't have to mess around with a bunch of ASVAB rejects."

Remy nodded. "There is that." But he swatted Gibbs on the shoulder on their way out.

.

AN:  
Oscar Mike Golf - Oh My God.  
GotM - Gods of the Military.

The actual method of address for the training officers is cumbersome and confusing, so I'm not actually doing this right. If you were in service; sorry. If you weren't; don't worry about it. However, I will point out that addressing a Marine by any designation meant for the Army will result in a hairy eyeball at best; or a screaming fit if you're in service. In this story Marines are Drill Instructor (DI), Army are Drill Sergeant (DS) I'm referring to them as TI's because DS is just weird.

Someone also pointed out that Gibbs retired as a Gunnery Sergeant; yes, he did. But, he's still in the reserves, and every year counts toward a promotion; so, due to years in service, active and reserves, he has gotten a much deserved promotion to Master Gunnery Sergeant; usually addressed as Master Gunnery Sergeant. Persons of equal or greater rank might address him as Master Gunny, or Master Guns.


End file.
